Flirting with Death's Grace by B. B. Swann

Author:B. B. Swann [Swann, B.B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: magical realism; drug abuse; addiction; alcoholism; death and dying; cancer; damaged hero; friendships; enemies to lovers; faith; recovery; redemption
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2022-04-22T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

I pulled into the church parking lot and parked near the back door but stayed in my car and stared at the building. The setting sun cast long shadows on the light brown brick and reflected off the glass of the windows. Memories flooded my mind, drowning me, sucking the air from my lungs until I hunched in pain.

I looked at the line of windows leading to the classrooms in the education wing to my right. I blinked, and Grace’s five-year-old face smiled back at me. Then she and I, eight, ran through the grass near the building, hunting for Easter eggs. Next came eleven, vacation Bible school, and I chased her with a water gun around the bench by the door. Finally, fourteen, Grace holding my hand under the maple tree in the church yard to my left, trying to convince me my parents’ divorce wasn’t my fault.

That was the last time I’d come here with her. Not long after that day, I’d met Connor and begun my headfirst spiral into Hell on Earth.

I closed my eyes, inhaling the familiar leathery smell of my car. “Damn.” Why was I here? To fix my future or to relive my past? Both seemed impossible. I imagined Grace’s lips on mine in the library, remembered her soft, whispered I love you on the phone, and found the strength to get out of the car.

I took a deep breath and walked into the building. Her dad didn’t think I’d be here. Honestly, I hadn’t either, but seeing the girl I adored dead because of my choices changed my perspective on things.

I froze just inside the door. The narthex was unrecognizable. I took a moment to acclimate to the changes, my head spinning from the unfamiliar surroundings of a place I’d grown up in. Cream-colored tiles had replaced the old dingy brown ones on the floor. They gleamed in the light filtering through the multicolored stained-glass windows. The pale yellow on the walls soothed better than the seemingly ancient gray paint from years ago. Just the right touch for a sinner seeking redemption or a doomed alcoholic pothead who wanted to change his life.

I walked down the stairs on my right, which led to the basement of the church. Here nothing had changed, and the familiarity calmed my nerves. The narrow stairs, painted a dark brown, were depressing after the bright upstairs remodel. Maybe the money had run out before they could get down here. I smirked. Time for another chili cook-off fundraiser.

I turned left at the foot of the stairs, and the wide hallway opened to a large room that looked exactly as I remembered.

Dingy tan linoleum flooring ran the whole length of the basement. The small windows, set high by the ceiling in the wall across from me, didn’t let in enough light to illuminate the room, but the fluorescent lighting exposed the walls, covered with a mixture of leftover beige and white paint mixed through the years to conserve resources.

This room had all the ambiance of a 1960s prison.

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